Keep Calm and Carry On
by themostincredible
Summary: Thalia Grace has always lived by one thing; Keep Calm and Carry On. But after coming home from her six year trip around the world because her mom couldn't hold a steady job, it's hard to tell how long she can keep calm and carry on when there's nowhere to hide. ON HIATUS.
1. Prolouge

_Prolouge_

Change.

It was possibly the most horrid thing to ever curse our lives. It shoved us together and tore us apart just as we were getting comfortable. It pushed us onto planes to sit and stare out of the window until the plane lurched again and you touched down in another new city. It started rumors about why you had been to over thirty-seven schools in the last six years. It caused you to live out of an army-sized duffel bag and never unpack.

It was what was happening at the moment.

I slouched against my seat, folding my arms behind my head. Out the window, the clouds were puffy and pink; dreamlike. I yawned, turning the volume on my headphones to sixty-three percent. Eight thousand, nine hundred, forty four miles from Wellington, New Zealand to New York meant eighteen hours on a plane chewing absentmindedly on gum, listening to music, and sleeping. Sleepily, my eyelids fluttered closed, engulfing me in a comfortable darkness. The plane lurched, causing me to jerk forward and ram my forehead against the back of the seat in front of me. I groaned. Slowly, I opened my eyes, glancing out the window. Below the belly of the plane, New York City skyline glowed with its usual night life.

I was home.


	2. Famous Last Words (Part One)

Chapter One (Part One)  
_Famous Last Words_

* * *

_Wednesday March 23rd, 2013—Apartment 427, 36 Monroe Street, New York_

The icy water chilled my nerves, distracting me from the glares and pointed looks that I already felt boring into my skin, though I knew there was no one there. I ran a finger over the scars that marred my wrist, exhaling.

"Open the door, you little bitch!" A voice screeched, but her words were muffled by the door. I rolled my eyes, not caring. I was home, that was all that mattered. Not even my "mother" could change that. Not after what she did. He was gone because of her. And I was never one to forgive and forget. It would always be her fault that he was gone. But there was the underlying guilt that I could've protected him, could've told him to run; that it was truly my fault that he was gone. There was nothing I could do to bring him back, though. No amount of money that I didn't have, no unanswered prayers that I didn't mean. _Nothing_.

The sound of rushing water was reduced to a drip. I dried off, stepping out of the tub, and slipped on a pair of skinny jeans and a gray _Ramones_ t-shirt, running a fat stick of black eyeliner on my waterline.

"I said open the door!"

I ran a brush through my tangled, raven hair. I could feel the emotions bubbling in my stomach, but I couldn't afford to blow up. Not before school. I had no idea what she might do. I took a deep breath, hoping to settle my emotions. I just had to keep calm.

"Do it your damn self!" I retorted. I could almost hear her sneer. The door slammed open. Shoving the cosmetics into a small pouch, I slipped past the women. I couldn't even call her my mother anymore. In the murky light of our one room apartment, I wove through the sea of bottles and cigarettes, exhaling as my foot brushed a piece of glass. The door to my room—a small walk-in closet—swung open on creaky hinges. I plopped onto the low, blanket-covered shelf, shoving on my combat boots and slipping on my floral skull ring. I slipped in my earbuds, placing my iPod on shuffle and slipping the device in my pocket.

My stomach turned at the thought of Luke. Why I still wore the ring, I had no idea. Luke Castellan. He was my family, and I had long since accepted that I had loved him more than I would family. He was the hero figure in my life. He was _everything_. My heart had fluttered at the thought of him.

_Then he left us_. _He left Annabeth and me after he had gained our trust._ He disgusted me; whenever I thought of him, my stomach was filled with absolute loathing; what kind of person would leave two nine year old girls on the street to fend for themselves; what kind of person _could _do that?

Sighing, I tried to dismiss the thought. I couldn't afford to dwell on the past—on Luke. Luke was the past. That life, that happiness I had felt, was the past. I just had to accept that and move on. And yet, I still wore the ring. The painful reminder of the past, of that happiness, of _him._

Questions without answers. Wars without generals. Secrets without stories. Nothing made sense anymore. Not like it ever did really. Something always had to go wrong. Always. Because apparently fate was dead set on me leading a miserable life. It seemed like as soon as I even thought about the fact that I _had_ to move on, it was suddenly so goddamn hard to forget. I could practically _hear _the taunting: _Hey, it's reality, you can't forget me_. Sound the fucking alarm and grab a goddamn gun because it doesn't matter if you've already given up on life; reality's a persistent little son of a bitch and won't leave you alone until he's sure you're broken. You don't even get a break, even after all the shit you went through. No. There's just more fucking shit for you to deal with. More fucking reality. Here, I'll serve you a fresh batch of pain and misery on a silver platter.

_Breathe, Thalia. Just keep breathing. Keep calm and carry on._

It seemed to be the only way to keep on living. _Just keep calm and push through the hard times._

I thought about the nine millimeter under the stove. The gun that could wipe all it away with a finger and twelve newtons of force. The gun that had the power to relieve all the pain. All the misery and hopelessness and fear and anger and hatred and heartbreak and unfairness and blood and death and ghosts and all the rest of the shit the world had to offer up. _Ghosts_. I can think up so many song references for that one word.

_And I will never be set free as long as I'm a ghost you can't see._

_I'm just a ghost so I can't hurt you anymore._

_I am the ghost upon the stage. The ghost on the stage appeared._

_And you're gone, gone, gone. I watched you disappear, and all that's left is a ghost of you._

_And all the wounds that are ever gonna scar me. For all the ghosts that are never gonna catch me... if I fall._

And countless others. Why are ghosts such a popular topic in songs? In poetry? In literature? In life? People waste their entire lives worrying about death, about becoming a wandering ghost for all eternity. Or they're afraid that they will just cease to exist after death. Kick another rock. Listen to another song. Take another deep breath. And walk another step further.

Was I really desperate enough to be rid of all my horrible memories and everything that went on around me to pull the trigger? Did I have the guts? Did I have the heart to do that to everyone? But who would miss me, really? I'm not really needed here. We'll all lose eventually.

It would be so, _so _easy. It _should _be easy. Just one movement. It only took one. Just one, single, solitary movement into oblivion.

I shook my head, flipping through my iPod to find My Chemical Romance's "Famous Last Words."

_Just keep breathing. _

I pulled on a leather jacket and shoved my books and binder into my bag, strapping the bass case securely on my back, and shouldering the messenger bag. I glanced at the wall clock, wincing at the fact that I would have to race.

I didn't bother saying goodbye, or even grabbing something to eat; I knew there was nothing. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, I stepped on my board, kicking off. The wind rushed around me, whipping my face as I wove through the crowded New York streets. Strangers threw glares at me, as if scorning me. I scoffed at the thought. They had no idea about our generation.

I nearly missed the school building; it looked so much like a regular Brooklyn establishment. Students were gathered at the steps of the Victorian structure, and I almost hoped that I wouldn't manage to accidently burn down this particular school like I had the last.

* * *

_Wednesday, March 23rd, 2013—Room 421, Wing C, New York School of Academic Studies and the Fine Arts—11:28 A.M._

I twirled the pencil around my fingers absentmindedly, glaring at the page in front of me. The letters swirled across the page, creating an ineligible jumble of letters. Scowling, I tapped aimlessly on the desk, earning a scoff from the boy next to me.

"You look like you're about to commit murder, Pinecone Face." The boy chuckled. I glowered, my hand drawn to my temple, where a thin scar marred my forehead. The memory of the moment I earned this scar flooded into my peripheral vision. I looked up, my electric blue eyes narrowed.

"How the hell—"I choked, studying the boy more closely. Raven, mussed hair; crooked half-smirk, half-smile; sea green eyes; small scar on his nose. Seaweed Brain. His smile widened to a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat.

Blood rushed to my head, heart pounding in my ears, thoughts falling through my mind. Percy Jackson. _The_ Percy Jackson. It took everything to not tackle him in a hug. Where was badass Thalia Grace; silent, dark Thalia Grace. The Thalia Grace that the world had come to acknowledge as existing. I gulped.

Percy Jackson.

If I was being perfectly honest with myself, I was starting to doubt everything. _Everything_. I was entertaining the thought of 'what if I'm dreaming and I'll wake up in a predicament worse that I live in now and my name isn't even Thalia'. That type of doubt. The kind that twists your brain and leaves you uncertain of the most definite things, the kind that makes you go insane. The kind that causes you to sit outside during a thunderstorm, wearing at least a pound of metal, and not care whether you are electrocuted or not.

I'd always prided myself on knowing exactly who I was and never letting anything except myself change the essence of who I was, my core, my soul, whatever you want to call it. _Me_. But now? God, I was really fucking pathetic, doubting that this was reality. Of _course_, it was reality. Deal with it, Grace.

I took a deep breath.

Percy.

He was nothing new. Except he was my best friend. I could handle him. But it was still all so _new_, even if he had my best friend, even if he was like a brother to me. He was part of the past, but I couldn't forget him like I couldn't forget Luke. _I could handle him_.

Percy raised an eyebrow. _Exhale, Grace._ I told myself. His grin had long since faded to a frown, then a rather serious expression.

"Where were you?"

I couldn't answer that. I couldn't even answer the simple questions, like "Where are you from?" or "Where are your parents?" without getting strange looks. I was always that _different_ girl. And even if I left, I still got the same strange looks and questions when I touched down in another city. After a while, I realized that I couldn't simply blend into the crowd. Not with all of my "mother's" actress friends. If I was going to be surrounded by relatively snobbish women who covered themselves in cosmetics and were driven around by hot men in Lincolns and Mercedes Benz, I couldn't just wear my hair in a ponytail with jeans and converse. That, even though I knew they barely cared about me, only attracted them to me like a moth to a flame. I had to stand out for the bitches to not notice.

And now, even though I wished everyone would just leave me alone, I couldn't change. Not anymore.

* * *

**A/N **And that's the first chapter! I'd like you to know that everyone (Percy, Annabeth, Thalia, and Nico) are all the same age and are in Senior year. I realize that my chapters are pretty short, but I don't have a lot of time because I have only have two weeks of school left before summer. Just wait, loves, I'll update every week in the summer. So, I've uped the rating to M because it seemed fit for both Nico and Thalia to swear a lot, as you can see in the chapter, but if it weren't for the profound language, it would still be rated T. Also, I should've warned you that this would be a dark story, but there was no "Dark" in the genres.

Live forever, or die trying

~ Rona

(Oh, the irony)


End file.
